The Blood Sacrament
by IronCipher
Summary: Two decades after the end of Apollyon's rebellion, Ashfeld's position is as precarious as ever. An influx of refugees has crowded the capital, the South remains a war-torn wasteland and the ever-present threat of Viking raids looms large. In these tumultuous times, heroes rise and fall by the blade alone, and victory is the color of blood.
1. Prologue: The Warlord

Jason Siegfried glanced over the ramparts of Castle Darkmoor, and frowned. His fortress at the heart of the southern city of Broadmoor was decorated with his personal sigil, a red sword on a blue field. Some idiot had painted the color backwards on one of the standards, however, and that was inexcusable. It wasn't too long ago that Jason had been another wandering knight, seeking to make his fortune. At the age of 35, he was past his prime and the future had been looking increasingly short and bloody. But then, through series of strokes of good fortune, he had found himself Warlord of the largest city in the South of Ashfeld. The Reguard Legion had held Broadmoor at the start of Apollyon's rebellion, and had broken from their Iron Legion rulers. However, internal divisions had started a civil war among the Redguards, and he had readily exploited them to first leverage a position, and eventually seize power. Jason was drawn out of his thoughts by the miss-painted banner. He stared at the offending object for a few seconds longer, before turning to his personal assistant, Bradley.

"Find out who's responsible for that one," Jason ordered, pointing at the banner. He scowled. It offended his sensibilities to see his (admittedly self-created) sigil defiled in such a way.

Bradley gave a low bow, his pointed nose almost touching his knees. He seemed a little nervous today, but then again the small man had always been twitchy.

"It will be done, my lord. What do you want done when we find who is responsible?"

Jason paused. Bradley was the kind of man who would never lead others, but somehow still managed to weasel his way into positions of power. His assistant knew people at all rungs of society in Broadmoor, and information was his specialty. All that to say, if Bradley said he was going to find someone in Broadmoor, that person was going to be found, sooner or later.

With that in mind, Jason finally replied. "Cut off his hand."

He glanced at the offending banner again. "Blue on _red_ ," he muttered.

Bradley gave another low bow, and then paused. "My Lord, I have heard rumors from the War Council. They say that we march on the city of Castilan three days hence."

Jason suppressed a wince. That Bradley knew his battle plans was annoying, but not unexpected. Normally it would have been a matter for concern, but Jason trusted Bradley as much as anyone. After all, Bradley owed his position and influence to Jason's rise to power. His loyalty was a strong as any of Jason's men, perhaps more.

"You hear true," Jason responded.

"My Lord, forgive me for my impertinence," began Bradley, who then paused. After a second, Jason waved a hand and his servant continued.

"A march on Castilan can only mean one thing, my Lord. You seek to unify the South."

From any other man, those words would have meant mortal danger. That was a plan only Jason himself was privy to. He had yet to mention it to even his War Council, instead letting them focus on the upcoming battle with the Warlord of Castilan, Cato the Butcher. For a moment, Jason toyed with killing Bradley then and there, but dismissed the idea. The man was too useful and was loyal enough. So long as the Iron Legion did not learn of his plan before the time was right, then everything would be fine.

So instead of slitting Bradley's throat, and watching as his servant bled out onto the ramparts, Jason gave a slow nod.

"Do not speak of this to anyone," he warned. Bradley gave a quick, nervous nod.

"Never, my Lord," he protested vehemently. Jason nodded again.

"See that you don't. It'll mean your death, as well as theirs."

Bradley gave a bow and made a move to leave, but Jason held up a hand. Bradley paused, and looked up at Jason, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his thin face.

"All the preparations have been made for tonight?" Jason asked. Bradley twitched. "What preparations, my Lord?" he responded anxiously.

Jason gestured impatiently. "You know. _The girl._ "

Bradley gave a sigh of relief. "Oh! Of course, my Lord. She awaits in your chambers."

Jason smiled. It was not a pretty sight. "Good. Tell the men I'm not to be disturbed for a few hours."

Bradley bowed. "It will be done, Lord Siegfried."

Jason dismissed Bradley with a wave of his hand, and made his way back inside towards his quarters in the East Tower. One of the many perks of being the Warlord of a major city was a bountiful supply of women to warm his bed. Jason took a new consort every week, used them in every way he desired, and finally tossed them out into the streets once he grew bored. The last had been plain and undesirable; so Jason had let out his frustrations on her more than the other girls. He could only hope that this week's bounty was more pleasing.

He was not disappointed. She was standing when Jason entered his chambers. Her pale blue eyes glittered like gemstones, set into a petite face and crowned by hair of flaxen gold. Her breasts were supple and firm, ending in a pair of dark nipples. Jason let his gaze roam over the curves of her naked form, and felt himself harden.

"Kneel," he ordered, gesturing to his breeches. The youthful (though truth be told, Jason couldn't quite figure out her age. Besides, he had other things on his mind) girl knelt silently. For a moment Jason thought he saw something flicker in those pale sapphire orbs, but then she took him in her mouth, and all such thoughts fled his mind. Jason groaned and tilted his head back. He loved this, loved the power he wielded. He could slake his desires in any way he chose, and that thought was almost better than the pleasure. A few scant minutes later, Jason finished in her mouth with a grunt, and she swallowed, still staring up at him with those sapphire eyes.

Jason wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he took several deep gulps of air.

"Damnation, girl," he said, turning around. "Might have to break my rule for a sweet thing like you."

Jason was in the middle of pouring himself a glass of wine from his bedside table– he had to stay hydrated as the next few hours would prove to be _strenuous_ – when he felt and sudden stabbing pain in his back. The goblet he'd been filling dropped from his nerveless hands onto the floor, spilling dark crimson wine across the flagstones.

Jason opened his mouth to speak, and there was another stabbing pain, this one lower, and he pitched forward, falling onto the table that held the wine. Slender arms gently turned him over, and Jason found himself facing the girl. Her eyes, still pale as ice, now glimmered with something Jason couldn't quite name.

He tried to speak, but instead all that came out was a bloody cough. Jason belatedly realized that his blood was pooling on the floor, mingling with the wine. The knife the girl had used to stab him was still in her hand, as she crouched there, naked. Jason waited for her to finish the job – the whole incident had gone by so fast that it was still surreal. The girl didn't move for a few seconds and Jason suddenly realized that her dark nipples were now rock hard and there was a glistening wetness between her legs. _Was she enjoying this?_

As the last of his lifeblood slowly drained out of him, the girl's hand darted between her legs and Jason had his answer.  
_

Bradley was sweating. His nimble hands shook as he gathered his belongings. He was in his chambers, the place he'd immediately hurried to after his talk with Lord Siegfried. A few months ago he'd been approached by a hooded traveler, who'd offered a stream of coin in exchange for information of Siegfried. The offer had been simple enough, and the coin had been more than welcome, so Bradley had accepted. He'd been a fool.

Everything had changed three nights ago when the traveler had told him that Seigfried was going to die, and that Bradley was going to be showered with coin for helping. Bradley had been too smart to complain. If they were killing a Warlord in his own home, what was one more loose end, after all? He could only pray that whatever he'd got himself mixed up into, it left him alive at the end.

The most terrifying part of it all was that they'd only told Bradley to do one thing: swap out the allotted girl with a new one of their own choosing. Bradley had been happy enough to comply; the girl they offered was a rare beauty, unlike the girl he'd had lined up. Siegfried would be pleased; but then the implications had sunk in and relief had turned to once more to terror.

A knock at the door made Bradley start. He tentatively opened it, and came face to face with the girl he'd switched, She was nude. Somewhat belatedly, he noticed the bloody knife she clutched in one hand.

"It is done," she said, her voice high and cold. "Let me in." Bradley noticed that her face was flushed in contrast to the rest of her pale-white skin.

Bradley nervously pushed his door all the way open. Total co-operation was the only way he was going to live to see another day. The woman walked in and began rummaging through his closet at the end of the room. Bradley stared at her naked body, feeling an unsettling combination of fear and arousal.

The young woman (She had a bizarre timeless quality about her, that made it hard for Bradley to properly guess her age) found what she was looking for: a bag filled with basic leathers and a helm. She'd given the sack to Bradley earlier, but he'd suppressed his natural curiosity in favor of caution and had left it unopened.

It made a lot of sense, in hindsight. Lord Siegfried had always been wary of assassinations and thus had ordered that all girls be brought in naked. This…assassin had clearly managed to sneak a dagger in somehow, but she'd have needed clothes to get out of the castle.

As the woman turned, bag in hand, Bradley noticed a spot of white just to the right of her mouth. He felt his stomach turn in nausea, and before he got stop himself, blurted out, "You let him use you before you killed him?"

The woman met his eyes with two orbs of glacial blue, wiping away the spot with the back of her hand as she did so.

"A man is weakest right after he spills his seed. With a warrior like Siegfried, it is always best to be careful, no?"

The fear returned in force, sweeping away the last of Bradley's arousal. He'd been so god-damned stupid to get involved in the first place. This woman was clearly mad in the lethal sort of way.

Thankfully, she dressed quickly, and soon her features were completely hidden by leather, chainmail and a small helm that covered her face entirely, leaving only slits for the eyes. Somehow, with her glacial beauty hidden, Bradley found he felt more in control of the situation, more grounded. This was hardly the first time someone had had the potential to kill him, but he'd always managed to weasel his way out of trouble. This time should be no different.

"I did everything you asked," Bradley suddenly blurted out. He cursed himself a second later. His outburst made him look weaker than he already was.

The woman paused, and then turned towards Bradley. He took an unconscious step back at her gaze.

When she spoke, her voice was deceptively mild. "Do not fear, Bradley. God has not demanded your death today."

Bradley felt a surge of relief that left him quivering.

"However," she continued, "You will continue to supply us with information. This place will go to Hell once people discover Siegfried's dead. _Stay alive_. We'll contact you again when the time is right."

Bradley could only nod, numb. He could already feel the chains of servitude creeping ever closer.

The girl let out a light sigh that Bradley knew had to be utterly false. "Cheer up, Bradley," she continued. "There's a lot of coin going to be coming your way."

He didn't respond, so the girl turned to go. Bradley suddenly shouted, "Wait!"

The woman paused.

"At least give me a name," Bradley continued, hoping his voice didn't come off too pleading.

The woman tilted her head so that she was looking directly into Bradley's eyes. He just _knew_ beneath the helm she was smirking coldly.

"You can call me Mercy," she said, and was gone.

After the woman had left, Bradley quickly gathered his possessions, and made for the city proper. He had to get out of here before things imploded. It was unlikely that Siegfried's death could be linked to him, but he was taking no chances. Besides, in the inevitable power struggle that was looming lay a bloodbath, and he wanted no part of it. Bradley had always been marginally competent in combat, but he was far, far better at gathering information and sowing advice.

It was time to leave, but in his heart, Bradley knew that this was far from over, and he despaired.


	2. Centurion 1-0

A/N: I always liked the "Thin Red Line" For Honor trailer, but felt the short explanation given by the actual lore (some random Blackstone soldiers being killed by Vikings) to be unsatisfactory given the overall epic nature of the trailer. So I reworked it so that the trailer actual represents the last stand of St. William the Savior, a key turning point in Ashfeld's mythos and cultural story. I feel like that brings the lore up to the standard set by the epicness of that last line (For the name you were given…and for your descendants. For Honor) . I have been debating doing a short extra chapter of William Dendregal's last stand from his point of view, and will probably get around to it at some point.

Gaius Maximus brooded as he sat at the bar of a tavern. His tanned skin had drawn odd looks from the short, fair-skinned occupants, but they had returned to their drinks soon enough. The barkeep had been friendly, though. Glancing down into the depths of his mug of ale, Gaius lamented on their failure. _His_ failure.

Presently, Gaius's commander and the rest of his brothers-in-arms were camped outside the city of Ascalon's walls, along with thousands of refugees. They were all that remained of the Throne Empire. Long ago, the Empire had been vast, great. Ashfeld had been merely a subsidiary of the Empire, once. They had ceded from the Throne hundreds of years before the Fall, and had already gone down their own path when the end struck.

The Fall might have shattered Ashfeld, but the Empire fared no better. The aftermath saw an endless struggle for civilization against the barbarians that then poured in. The Empire had limped on, but never truly recovered. Now, a thousand years after the Fall, the Throne of the Empire lay broken, and only three of its Legions remained. The Batari hordes had swept through the capital, laying waste to the citizens of the Empire. The few survivors were now refugees in a land that once had bowed before their might.

"Coin for your thoughts?" It was the bartender. He'd snuck up on Gaius, and now stood in front of the Centurion, his hairy hands clasped behind his back.

Gaius sighed. "Thinking back on darker days."

The bartender gave a bitter chuckle. "Plenty of those, my friend. The last couple years been better, since the new Lord Warden took over. But before him, well we had the Dark Days and the Years of Rage even before that."

Gaius nodded solemnly. It seemed that this strange country had its share of problems, despite the prosperity of Ashfeld's capital.

"Heard you got some nasty fuckers up north," Gaius said, more to continue the conversation than anything else.

The barkeep shook his head darkly. "By the Founder, that's putting it lightly. But aye, those godless Vikings bastards are always causing trouble."

Gaius diplomatically neglected to mention that as a Centurion of the Throne, he worshipped a pantheon entirely separate from the Church of Ashfeld's monotheistic doctrine and thus was likely included in the category of "godless bastards".

Instead, the Centurion simply nodded along.

"Still," the bartender continued, and his tone was brighter than before. "We've thrown those heathens out of Ashfeld every time they try and get a foothold. You ever hear of St. William the Savior?"

Gaius confessed that he hadn't, and the barkeep reached under the counter and withdrew a small figurine. It was carved out of some sort of soft, white stone, and depicted a knight in full armor raising his sword to the sky.

"I haven't seen any statues of him around the city," Gaius mused. It struck him as odd that a hero celebrated enough that a _bartender_ of all people kept a depiction of him, yet St. William remained absent from the rather impressive collection of statues found within the capital.

The other man's gaze darkened. "The Church here don't like that us Easterners call him a saint. To them, he ain't divine or nothing. You won't find any statues of him in the West, but back east every church 'n' castle's got at least one of these." He gestured to the figurine.

"What did he do?" asked Gaius. He was genuinely curious as to what St. William had done to have had such a profound effect on a large segment of Ashfeld's population.

The bartender, for his part, rubbed his hairy palms together as he prepared to speak.

"It was back near the beginning of the Years of Rage," the shorter man began. At Gaius's look of confusion, however, he paused to elaborate.

"The Years of Rage began 'bout 70 years ago. Before that, see, we had decades of peace. It made us weak. Soft. When, out of the blue Viking hordes began pouring into Ashfeld again, we were caught with our breeches down, so to speak."

Gaius winced. It conjured up images he'd rather forget, of cities aflame and screaming barbarian hordes.

"First couple years were the worst," the barkeep continued. "For a while, it is said, people thought that it was only a matter of time before they overran Ashfeld completely. Each year those bastards came back stronger, while we were getting' weaker 'n' weaker."

Gaius felt an unusual amount of sympathy for the plight of the ancient Ashians. The Empire had been placed in a similar position against the hordes of Batari, year after year, but ultimately suffered a far worse fate.

"It all came to a head 'bout 5 or 6 years in. A Viking army, one of the largest ever, laid waste to the North. A chieftain named Ulfric Ragnarsson had united the twelve Viking clans, see, and it seemed like no-one could stop him."

"But William did," Gaius interrupted, suddenly understanding the direction this story was taking.

The bartender nodded. "William Dendregal, did, aye. He was a knight from the East, see, and had rallied a small army to his cause. They held the line against the Vikings a few miles from the capital. Outnumbered seven to one, and they still held out for three days."

"Impressive," Gaius admitted, though privately he found it likely that the tale had been embellished. "What happened after?"

"His forces were overrun and killed, of course," stated the bartender matter-of-factly. "Against those odds, even one granted the grace of the Lord would have fallen, and so he did. But St. William's sacrifice decimated the Viking army, and delayed them long enough that a legion from the south arrived to fortify Ascalon. The godless heathens don't usually feel fear, but on that day St. William had terrified 'em."

"A noble sacrifice," Gaius said respectfully.

"Damn right," the barkeep growled. "He saved the capital, all of Ashfeld probably. Course the west don't see it that way, but what can you do? All cause St. William wasn't one of their _own_."

"What about the Dark Days?" Gaius asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation in a new direction. Considering the fact that they were in the west, in the capital of Ashfeld itself no less, it was probably wise not to repeatedly insult the local population.

The bartender's face closed up instantly. "What do you want to know?" he asked somberly.

Gaius shrugged. "Not sure. People mention it here from time to time, but no-one can tell me what it is."

The barkeep sighed. "Folks don't like to talk 'bout it. It was bad times, and recent ones at that."

"What happened?" Gaius queried.

The short man paused, and for moment Gaius thought he wasn't going to speak.

"A mad bitch from Blackstone named the Heretic raised an army," the bartender finally said. "She captured a fortress in the East and ended up causin' a war, a hundred thousand deaths, just cause she could." He spat in disgust. "We welcomed her at first, see. The Iron Legion hadn't been doin' so good against the Viking raids at the time, but she and her Blackstone Legion drove the godless barbarians back."

Gaius found Ashfeld's overabundance of Legions irritatingly complex. Yes, the Iron Legion ruled supreme, but it was ultimately composed of hundreds of smaller Legions, each with their own names, allegiances, and banners. It became horrendously messy very quickly. The armies of the Throne Empire, on the other hand, had been composed of many Legions, but all were as one before the Throne.

"Course, that was before it came out that she was _letting the greatest heathen warriors she had captive go_!" the last part was spoken with a sudden rush of brutal fury. Conversation in the tavern ceased for a moment as all eyes briefly turned towards the barkeep after his outburst, before the quiet hubbub of conversation began anew as the patrons returned to their drinks.

"Seems like an ill-advised strategy," Gaius commented mildly. "Particularly if you plan on winning a war."

"See that's problem right there," growled the bartender. "She didn't want to win a war; she wanted to _start one_."

"Sounds like you got a mind for this Heretic's designs," Gaius remarked idly.

As he took another sip of ale out of his tankard, Gaius noticed the still-unnamed bartender stiffen at his observation. A suspicion began growing in the back of Gaius's mind, which was only re-enforced by the barkeep's next comment.

"Enough 'bout our troubles, though," the shorter man continued. "You and yours must be knee deep in shit. You've been camped outside the city for what, a moon now?"

Gaius nodded, slightly wary of the direction the conversation was taking. "It's been a rough few moons," he admitted. "Ever since the Breaking of the Throne, us imperials have had our share of troubles."

"The challenges of this earth are merely trials sent by God to test us," replied the bartender with mock solemnity. He then leaned closer to the centurion, and lowered his voice. "Any idea what's to become of your Legions? Word is that the Lord Warden 'imself is to meet with your General."

And there it was. Gaius supressed a sigh. "General Scorpio does not share his plans with his soldiers," he said, and the bartender's face fell slightly. "Besides," Gaius continued, "I would hardly share such information with a spy."

The barkeep's jaw dropped in shock before the shorter man recovered his composure. Gaius was careful to note that it had only been surprise that had flashed across the other man's face; the indignation or confusion that should have been present was distinctly absent. The centurion hadn't been sure before, but now he was.

"I'm not sure what you're on about," the bartender responded belatedly.

Gaius simply raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't sure before, but I certainly am now."

The barkeep cursed, and then lowered his voice, glancing at the other patrons around the two men as he did so. "Alright, fine. You can't blame a man for tryin', though. Besides, I've been out of that business for years now. If I happen to hear somethin' useful while runnin' the bar…well, there's always those with coin to give for rumor and whispers."

"Who's paying?" Gaius asked quietly, internally wondering how the shorter man would respond.

The barkeep barked a short laugh. "You don't beat 'round the bush, do yah? Let's just say you're better off not knowin'…no chance of wakin' up with a dagger in your back that way, eh?" The bartender chuckled again, but Gaius felt that he was only half-joking.

Gaius figured he'd try his luck, and covertly slid some coins onto the counter of the bar. "No names," he replied. "But what are we dealing with here? Mercenaries? Some Lord's eyes and ears?"

The bartender paused for a second, as if finding the right words to say. "Let's just say the Lord Warden ain't the only one trynna keep the peace," he said finally, deftly scooping up the coins. "The others…they just go 'bout it their own way."

Gaius considered pressing again, but could tell from the set of the other man's jaw that it would likely be a pointless endeavour. Instead, the centurion drained his drink and placed the empty tankard on the counter.

Dropping a few more coins on the bar, Gaius got up to leave. "Many thanks for the conversation…and the ale," the centurion added belatedly.

The barkeep chuckled. "Mah pleasure." He lowered his voice slightly. "If you ever want'a turn whispers into coin…you know where to find me."

Gaius nodded. "I'll keep it in mind." Privately, the centurion recoiled at the idea of taking up the former spy on his offer. It was always best to keep such connections open, however, so Gaius did not let any of his inner thoughts show.

It was just his luck, Gaius mused. Barely a moon in Ashfeld, and he had already found himself implicated in a group of dubious origins, if only peripherally.

As he slipped out of the tavern and into the night, Gaius made for city gates. He'd originally planned to stay in the capital a few days longer, but after his conversation with the bartender, he'd cut his time short. The centurion mentally prepared himself for the mile-long trek to his Legion's encampment outside the city walls. It was shaping up to be a long night, but such was life.

After all, General Scorpio needed to know what he'd discovered.


	3. Warden 1-0

Marcus Connington tapped his index finger in irritation on the side of his throne. He'd set up this particular meeting to propose his solution to the current refugee crisis in the capital– and what an elegant solution it was. Unfortunately, while two of his three subordinate Wardens had arrived on time, the third, the Warden of the West, had not. Marcus required their full support prior to the arrival of the leader of the refugees, General Scorpio. The chamber he'd chosen for the meeting was the throne room; usually, Marcus met with his fellow Wardens in more homely chambers, but this was a meeting with a foreign power, and as such demanded greater formality. A long table had been placed in front of the throne, and two chairs had been placed each side of it; one for every kingdom in Ashfeld. A final chair had been placed at the end, for the eventual arrival of General Scorpio.

Marcus took the time to study his fellow Wardens. The Warden of the East, Henry Crassus, was a short man with a slight hint at a potbelly. He was balding, and his weak chin wobbled slightly as the man shifted in his seat. Overall, the impression given was more merchant than warrior, but given his jurisdiction that was unsurprising. The East bordered the isolationist Dawn Empire, and as a result rarely saw conflict. Occasionally, border skirmishes would spill out of the swamps of the Myre and into Ashfeld proper, but those were few and far between.

As a result, the ruling body in the East, the League of Six Nations, was more an economic power than a military one. The Warden of the East certainly reflected this trend. Marcus pondered on this as he waited. It was interesting how the Wardens reflected their region of origin, at least to some extent.

The Warden of the North, Jon Highguard, was growing impatient with the final Warden's tardiness. He was of average height, but built like a tree trunk. He was the oldest of the three Wardens, but even so he still held the physique of a man half his age. His arms and legs were corded bands of pure muscle, and Marcus had seen him wield a greatsword with an ease that belied his years. The Northerners were warriors, first and foremost. Every spring brought the promise of Viking raids from across the northern border with Valkenhiem, and the North of Ashfeld bore the brunt of their assaults. As a result, the North had a close relationship with the capital in the West, as the Northerners often required additional troops to stymie Viking war parties. The West, for its part, had a vested interest in keeping the raiders from penetrating too far into Ashfeld's rich heartlands and thus sent Iron Legion reinforcements north each spring.

Apart from the North's unusually cordial relationship with their Iron Legion overlords in the West, the geographic position of the North had resulted in a people of warriors, accustomed to hardship and sacrifice.

Marcus switched his gaze to one of the two empty chairs in the room. The Warden of the South's seat had remained empty for almost two decades now, and was reflective of the situation in the South as a whole. Two decades ago, when Appollyon the Heretic began her rebellion against the Iron Legion, the Warden of the South at the time, Roland the Useless had seized the chance to remove the yoke of the West. While the Iron Legion fought Appollyon's Blackstone Legion in the East, Roland had declared the South an independent kingdom. The Warden had managed to maintain stability in his new fiefdom for about a month before he was assassinated and it descended into civil war. Since then, the kingdom had remained in a state of constant strife as the various Legions who called the South home fought each other in a brutal struggle for control.

As the Lord Warden, and the de-facto ruler of Ashfeld for the last several decades, Marcus had desired to return the South to the fold for some time now. The right moment just hadn't come up. Appollyon's death a decade-and-a-half ago hadn't seen an end to conflict in the East, as Marcus had hoped at the time. Instead, one of Appollyon's few remaining commanders, Mortem Castor, had rallied her remaining Legions under a new banner: that of the Blackstone Remnant.

Mortem Castor had proved to be almost a bigger problem than the Heretic herself. While there was no doubt that the former was the superior warrior, Mortem had proved to be a genius tactician. Despite having only a third of Appollyon's forces, the Blackstone Remnant had burned a trail of fire from the North, through the East all the way to the gates of the Capital. It had been there, outnumbered 5 to 1 by the Iron Legion, that Castor's forces had finally been defeated. It had been a pyrrhic victory for the Iron Legion, however; Marcus's forces had suffered horrific casualties. Still, Mortem Castor had fallen that day, killed in the chaotic melee that had at erupted as the Iron Legion vanguard had pushed into the Blackstone camp. His corpse still lay on somewhere on Vensen Feld, rotted and forgotten. A fitting end for that man.

The weakened Iron Legion had been forced to turn its attention to the north instead of the south every year thereafter, in preparation for the spring raids by the Viking clans. Though the raids were less vicious than they had been during the Years of Rage, they were still an ever-present concern in the back of every Ashian's mind. The South, divided and impoverished, had been largely left to its own devices. Short of being united under a new Warden of the South, it presented no real threat to the rest of Ashfeld.

A few years ago, Marcus had finally managed to swell the ranks of the Iron Legion enough that he felt confident he could conquer the South and have men left over for the spring raids in the North, but had stayed his hand. Two decades of civil strife had reduced the South to a famine-ridden wasteland. The cost of conquering it would massively outweigh the benefits at this point.

The sound of footsteps alerted Marcus to the arrival of the Warden of the West, Jeremiah Ventari. The tardy Warden reflected his jurisdiction in a similar manner to the others. Hailing from an ancient lineage, the Warden of the West epitomized the ideal of Ashfeld's heartland: strong, highborn and wealthy. With high cheekbones, long dark hair that cascaded in a mane down his neck, and steel-grey eyes, the young Ventari was aristocracy made manifest.

Marcus was drawn from his musing by the sound of the doors to the throne room opening. He had eschewed from wearing the symbol of his office to this meeting; the helm of the first Lord Warden, Viceron the Unifier. As General Scorpio strode in, however, Marcus slightly regretted that decision. Scorpio himself had chosen to dress in his finest regalia; his full helm was accented with gold leaf and his purple cloak, made from what Marcus easily recognized satin, billowed behind him. The General walked with purpose, each step designed to resonate beyond its immediate utility as a show of power and authority. _All too often, men who feel the need to flaunt their power and authority have little enough of either,_ mused Marcus.

General Scorpio, for all his showmanship, seemed to possess a measure of both. It probably helped that he had three Legions of the Great Empire's finest veterans camped a stone's throw from the gates of the Capital, though. The General removed his helm, and his dark hair spilled out. Unlike Jeremiah's immaculately groomed mane, Scorpio's long hair was thick and haphazard, though it retained a sort of roguish charm. The effort Scorpio had put into his apparel was impressive, but the illusion was not quite complete. Marcus's keen eyes spotted a few details that could have otherwise easily been missed. Here, a dark stain on the edge of Scorpio's tunic, blood most likely. There, a slight dent in the General's bracer, probably from a club or hammer.

Marcus felt his estimation of Scorpio go up slightly. The General was not one of the simpering aristocrats that the later years of the Great Empire had reportedly produced; he was a warrior, first and foremost.

The General stopped in front of the throne, and inclined his head. Marcus frowned. Protocol dictated that Scorpio bow, but the General had ignored it. _Ignorance, perhaps?_ Marcus wondered. It was possible. More likely, however, this was simply an opening gambit in the negotiations that were about to begin. Scorpio's inclination was not the insult or challenge that refusing to acknowledge the Lord Warden's authority would have given; rather, it was a statement. _We don't recognize your complete authority; not yet,_ it said. Marcus suppressed a sigh. Politics had never been one of his interests, though he was capable enough at the game.

Scorpio didn't speak; he simply stood, waiting for Marcus to make the first move. Marcus suppressed his irritation at the dominance play. Implementing his plan would require not just convincing Scorpio, but crucially his own Wardens as well. While Marcus did technically have supreme authority as the Lord Warden, in practice his relationship with the other Wardens was more complicated. In the time of Viceron the Unifier, perhaps, the office of Lord Warden had likely held all the power it supposedly came with, but over the centuries the balance had shifted.

Thus, instead of showing his annoyance, Marcus plastered on a smile and gestured at the General.

"Welcome to the capital, General. I hope you've found your accommodations pleasing."

Scorpio shrugged. "To be honest, Lord Warden, after two months at sea anything on dry land is pleasing." The General's voice was faintly accented with aristocratic lint that Imperials favoured. It wasn't too far off from the dulcet tones of Ashfeld's elite, though Marcus doubted either would appreciate the comparison.

"Indeed," Marcus responded. "I've heard that the crossing was difficult. You have my sympathies."

Scorpio scowled, a dark look crossing his tanned face. "The seas claimed two of the five Legions I set out with, and another hundred thousand Imperial citizens. But even Neptune himself could not stop the rest of us."

Marcus was thrown briefly by the last statement, but then he remembered that unlike Ashfeld's monotheism, the Empire celebrated an entire pantheon of Gods. Similar to the Vikings, Marcus supposed, and then internally scowled at the thought of the northern barbarians. As for the Dawn Empire, Marcus had no clue what the Chosen believed, and doubted anyone else knew earlier. Before he could get too sidetracked, Marcus turned his attention back to the General.

"Again, you have my sympathies. But now that the Legions of the Throne Empire are here, we must discuss how to integrate them into our nation."

"I concur," replied Scorpio, to Marcus' relief. One hurdle down. "I believe that my people and your people must become _our_ people, if we are to survive."

"And how exactly do you propose to do that?" a new voice questioned in a lazy drawl. It was the Warden of the West, Jeremiah Ventari. He had stopped fiddling with his sword, and now was watching the exchange with keen interest, though it was poorly hidden behind a façade of polite boredom.

Marcus turned to speak to Jeremiah directly.

"I have a solution that should satisfy all of us, if implemented correctly."

The Warden of the West made a casual gesture laced with a hint of mockery. "Then by all means, Lord Warden, pray tell us."

Marcus frowned internally at the man's insolence. Jeremiah was descended directly from the legendary Viceron Ventari himself, the first Lord Warden. It made him simultaneously condescending to almost everyone else, and insecure to the point of concern as the young man found himself incapable of matching his ancestor's glory. While Jeremiah often touted his connection to the legendary Iron Warden of Ashfeld, the Ventari lineage had not produced anyone of substantial note after Viceron, leading Marcus to privately believe that the Unifier had been an outlier in an otherwise unremarkable family.

Marcus had kept such notions to himself, however. Viceron Ventari was undeniably the greatest hero of Ashfeld's pantheon of legends. He was as celebrated in the West as much William the Savior was in the East, and the latter had been practically deified by the eastern branch of the Church. As such, the Ventari family held a certain amount of prestige to their name, and Marcus would earn no friends by commenting on their lack of ability outside of Viceron.

All of these factors made Jeremiah a man to watch, and Marcus resolved to keep a closer eye on the young scion. While Jeremiah was a capable Warden of the West, he lacked the vision to be a good Lord Warden. The young Ventari was consumed by his own personal goals and ambitions, and would rapidly alienate the other kingdoms. Once Marcus inevitably vacated his position, whether it be a year hence or a decade, it would be best if Jeremiah was not in a position to claim it.

Regardless, at Jeremiah's request both of the other Wardens leaned forward unconsciously as they truly engaged in the conversation for the first time. Scorpio, for his part, simply waited for Marcus to speak, his dark eyes resting on the Lord Warden with a calm intensity.

"My solution is this, but keep in mind these terms are non-negotiable," Marcus stated, turning his head so as to address Scorpio directly. "The Legions of the Throne Empire will march south, and reclaim the region for the Iron Legion. The refugees will follow after, and be granted lands there. Finally, following the completion of your conquest, you will be granted the title of Warden of the South and all the responsibilities associated with it, provided you kneel before the Iron Legion."

The last statement caused a wave of shock amongst the others. Scorpio looked briefly surprised, but covered it quickly in favor of scratching the stubble around his chin. The Warden of the North's eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, but otherwise he made no comment. Jeremiah stood up quickly, his face displaying a mixture of disbelief and poorly-concealed anger. Before he could speak, however, Marcus held up a hand and silenced him. The Warden of the East simply looked thoughtful, and gave no other hint as to his thoughts.

Marcus slowly lowered his hand, and gave Jeremiah a pointed look. Reluctantly, the Warden of the West lowered himself back into his seat, though Marcus could tell that his anger still simmered beneath the surface.

Marcus turned back to Scorpio, and waited for an answer. It was not long coming.

"I will have to discuss this with my Praetors," said Scorpio slowly, "But I see no issues with these terms. I will send word with our response."

Marcus waited for the other Wardens to speak, but they remained silent, though he did catch Jeremiah glaring at him when the Warden of the West thought he wasn't looking. Scorpio's acceptance was the easy part – the terms were abundantly generous. The Warden of the South was not a title handed down lightly, and no doubt many would resent it passing to a foreigner in the short term. In the long term, however, Ashfeld would hopefully be better off for it. The hard part would be convincing the other Wardens that this course of action was the not just correct, but necessary.

After a few tense seconds, Marcus clapped his hand together. "This meeting is adjourned. General Scorpio, I await your response."

The general, for his part, gave a half-bow in reply. Marcus was pleasantly surprised at the gesture. Perhaps there was a good chance of this plan succeeding after all. With his purple cloak trailing behind him, Scorpio left the throne room, and the doors closed behind him with a low boom.

Jeremiah was the first to open his mouth, and his words were spoken with a hard edge. "Are you mad?" he blurted out. That statement did not go down well with the Warden of the North, who banged his fist on the stone table. "That's your Lord you're talking to," growled the northerner. "I saw him cut through ranks of Viking raiders while you were still a pup, so hold your tongue!"

His rage abated for now, the Warden of the North turned to Marcus. "That don't mean I agree with you, but you've got us this far. I don't like it, but I'll put my faith in your judgement. You've done right by the North ever since that bitch Appollyon died –"

"You dare say her name?" Jeremiah interrupted incredulously. "The Church struck her name from the records. Henceforth she is only to be known as the Heretic –"

"I know what the Church said," snapped the Warden of the North. "Do I look like a fucking priest to you? Now shut up and let me finish!"

Jeremiah subsided, and the Warden of the North turned back to Marcus.

"As I was sayin', the North stands by your terms. You've yet to steer us wrong."

Before Jeremiah could get a word in, the Warden of the East spoke. His voice and demeanour was mild, as if he was simply discussing something as mundane as the weather.

"I find the terms rather interesting, actually."

Jeremiah looked at his fellow Warden incredulously, while Marcus stared in surprise. This was an unexpected, if not unwelcome turn of events.

"The South has always remained apart from the rest of Ashfeld, even before its secession. This is an opportunity to strengthen our ties to the area over the long term. It also solves the refugee crisis quite neatly, while bolstering our own forces by another _three_ Legions." The Warden of the East shrugged. "Even if Scorpio does turn on us later, the South is impoverished and weak from infighting. I see no problems. The East will support your terms, my Lord."

Jeremiah looked like he'd swallowed something bitter. Marcus, on the other hand, felt a measure of relief. One of the bigger challenges – convincing the Wardens and Scorpio of the validity of his strategy – was almost complete. Jeremiah _could_ theoretically still oppose the terms, but it would harm his own position more than anything else.

Jeremiah opened his mouth to speak, and proved himself not to be a complete fool. "The West will support the terms," he said grudgingly.

Marcus gave a crisp nod. "Then we are in agreement. Let us meet again when General Scorpio sends word to us."

"As you say, my Lord," replied the Warden of the East cordially, while the Warden of the North just nodded. Jeremiah said nothing.

The Warden of the North then bowed deeply, while Jeremiah's gesture was far more shallow.

As the other two filed out of the chamber, the Warden of the East remained behind and approached Marcus.

"The young Lord Ventari's ambition outstrips his common sense," murmured Warden. "You should watch him carefully, my Lord."

"Do not fear," assured Marcus. "I already have plans to do so."

The Warden of the East nodded, and then bowed. He strode after his compatriots, leaving Marcus alone in the chamber.


	4. Commander 1-0

Aldred Cain was a man who enjoyed periods of quiet contemplation, even though his lowborn accent and gruff disposition often gave the opposite impression. His place of choice for such musings was the Treasury within the Iron Citadel, a vast complex that sprawled across the lower levels. It was inevitably one of the most well-guarded places in the entire kingdom, and Aldred was one of a few select individuals with access. It was, he supposed, one of the many advantages of being comrades-in-arms with the Lord Warden. Despite Aldred's friendship with the ruler of Ashfeld, however, eastern wing remained barred to him; it contained the vaults were much of the wealth of Ashfeld was stored.

This was hardly an undesirable state of affairs; the eastern wing held no interest for Aldred. He preferred spending his time in the west wing; meandering his way through the halls and taking time examine the relics of ages past.

The west wing housed most of Ashfeld's cultural artifacts; the last fragments of those who had stood as legends in their own times. Aldred had found himself spending more and more time in the silent halls of late, scrutinizing the final legacies of the men and women who had guided Ashfeld in years past.

The main hall of the west wing held Ashfeld's most prized relics, and Aldred was surprised to see he was not alone when he entered. The room was dominated by a massive tapestry of Viceron the Unifier at the far end, and a figure stood in contemplation before it.

Aldred's footsteps echoed loudly as he approached, and the other person turned around to reveal the scarred visage of the Lord Warden. His short chestnut hair remained cut with almost military precision, a habit retained from the brutal conflicts of the Dark Days. The weight of ruling had clearly taken its toll on Ashfeld's ruler as deep stress lines now intermingled with mess of scars that dominated the Lord Warden's face.

His weathered visage lit up at the approach of Aldred, however. "Stone, you old bastard," he exclaimed happily. "I should'a guessed I'd find you here!"

'Stone' was the moniker given to Aldred by his soldiers during the Dark Days. He was a strong believer in the value of discipline, and had applied this theory equally to himself as to the soldiers under his command. Rumors had quickly spread through the Iron Legion of Aldred's calm and unwavering demeanor in the face of countless foes. This had led to Aldred's own soldiers joking that their commander was as implacable as a man of stone. The name had stuck, and then spread beyond the Legions and into the general population in the years after the Dark Days.

"You're in fine form today," Aldred commented lightly. Had they been in a more public area, he would have addressed his old friend by the latter's title, but there was no need in a private setting such as this.

Marcus grinned, the action creasing the scars on his cheeks. "Why shouldn't I be? I solved the refugee crisis and took the first steps to reclaim the South, all in one stroke!"

Aldred found himself amused despite himself. It was rare to see his old friend in such a fine mettle.

They'd met for the first time decades ago. It had been near the beginning of the Dark Days, before many knew of Appollyon's true designs. Viking hordes had poured down from the North, burning everything in their path. Aldred and his men had been stationed at Harrowgate, a key fortress that provided a gateway to both the eastern province and Ashfeld's western heartlands. Outnumbered and under siege, with no prospect of Iron Legion re-enforcements any time soon, Aldred had pleaded for aid with the only other power in the region: the Blackstone Legion. Appollyon had responded by sending Marcus – alone.

Aldred had initially reacted with disbelief, but that had quickly turned to admiration as the man who would become the Lord Warden single-handedly cut a swathe through the Viking vanguard. The tide of the battle had turned, and the Vikings had broken ranks. Aldred had scarce been able to believe it at the time, as Marcus had single-handedly saved him and every one of his men from almost certain death. The Siege of Harrowgate remained a popular story to this day with the bards for that very reason. It was also one of the few tales that largely remained free of embellishment, as the truth was as exciting as any fiction. Though Marcus would cement his legend in later years against both the Viking raiders and Mortem Castor, the Lord Warden's meteoric rise had truly begun that day at Harrowgate.

"Well, it's a fine a reason as any," Aldred replied with a hint of humor. "The other Wardens ratified the terms?"

Marcus nodded. "Jeremiah complained, as usual, but when the others lent their agreement he was swayed."

"Fuck the Ventari bastard," Aldred spat. "Arrogant shit thinks he's somethin' special just 'cause his ancestor conquered Ashfeld. Fucking nobles."

Aldred nursed a bitter anger for nobility who believed their admittedly distinguished lineage was a substitute for ability. He'd lost good men and almost an eye because of one such fool during the war against Mortem Castor, and maintained a healthy dislike of the breed ever since.

Marcus didn't seem moved by Aldred's outburst, though one corner of his mouth did quirk upwards in amusement. He instead turned back towards the tapestry, and the pedestal below it. In a place of prominence sat the ultimate symbol of the Lord Warden's authority, and one of the few relics from the time of the Iron Warden: the crown of Viceron the Unifier. It was a circlet of six iron spikes that reached skyward, and the circlet itself was set into a knight's helm. It was not the crown of a king; it was the crown of a warrior.

The helm underneath had been replaced many times, but the circlet itself remained unchanged since the time of the Unifier. The tips of each of the six points were painted with the colors of the Iron Legion, a tradition harkening back to Viceron himself. Common legend held that the first Lord Warden had used the blood of his enemies to adorn the spikes, but Aldred personally found it unlikely.

The tapestry behind the crown was also a masterpiece, and the only other surviving relic of the time of Unifier. It depicted Viceron, clad in crimson raiment, cutting through hordes of his enemies. Of course, the colors of the Iron Legion now were a mix of green and light yellow, but back in the day of Viceron they had been a blood-red.

When exactly the change from red to green had occurred, however, was a matter of constant debate between the scholars of the Spire. Some held that it had been a move by Edgar the Egregious, a particularly short-lived Lord Warden who most historians agreed had gone mad a few years into his reign. Others claimed it was a result of dye shortages during the Succession Wars with the South, and the switch had been driven by necessity. Whatever the reason, the end result was the same: the standards of the Iron Legion had been patterned with a light yellow on a field of green for several centuries now.

Marcus had been staring intently at the tapestry for several minutes, so Aldred decided to broach the silence.

"He leaves a hard legacy to live up to."

Marcus replied without taking his eyes off the tapestry. "No doubt. I have always been satisfied that Ashfeld remains stable, but some days I do wonder…"

The Lord Warden's voice trailed off, and when he spoke again his voice was laden with exhaustion. "Do think it was hard for him?" he asked, gesturing to towards Viceron with one hand. "Giving up the sword, and taking up the crown?"

"Perhaps he was one of those rare men who had a deft hand for both the blade and the court," Aldred replied slowly. "Legend certainly tells it so. However, us mere mortals? We simply do with what we are given." Aldred pulled on Marcus' shoulder, bringing his gaze away from the tapestry. "You have been a good ruler, Marcus," he said, "Ashfeld is more prosperous than ever."

"Is it?" replied Marcus wearily. "It seems for every crisis averted, another dozen rear their ugly heads. The Vikings still raid our lands every spring, drowning the North in a tide of blood. Ashfeld is not thriving, Aldred. It is surviving. There is a difference."

"Survival is better than ruin," countered Aldred. "Marcus, when all seemed lost, it was _you_ who turned the tide. You saved my life and those of my men at Harrowgate. You led us to victory under the banner of the Iron Legion against Mortem Castor. You've done more for Ashfeld than any man alive today. Let that be enough."

Marcus turned away, back to the tapestry, and as he did so Aldred clearly beheld the heavy shadows under his old friend's eyes. Ruling as Lord Warden had clearly taken its toll.

"If only it were," muttered Marcus tiredly.

Aldred didn't know how to respond to that, so after several moments of silence he walked away from the tapestry and towards one the pieces displayed on a stone pedestal: the helm of Apollyon the Heretic. Aldred often spent time here, staring at the helmet. It had a way of centering him, sobering him. It brought back memories of his shameful past within the ranks of the Blackstone Legion, and was a grim reminder of the brutal savagery the world had to offer.

The helmet had lost much of its former splendor; the black iron had rusted and faded with age. If one were to look very closely, the faint remnants of dried bloodstains could be seen. Though it had been one of the Dawn Empire's elite who had struck the final blow that had killed Apollyon, the ensuring three-way battle between the forces of Ashfeld, the Vikings and the Dawn Empire had seen her body lost in the confusion. Her helmet had been recovered, however, and placed in the vaults of the Citadel along with all the other relics of previous battles. Standard procedure would have been to wash the blood-stained helm, but Marcus had ordered it be placed on display with all the trappings of war still attached: mud, blood, and a faint scent of death. Of course, the former and the latter had not survived the test of time, but the blood of the Heretic still crusted her infamous helm.

Aldred perceived movement out of the corner of his eye, and found Marcus approaching.

"I have a mission for you, old friend," Marcus stated.

Aldred immediately turned to face the ruler of Ashfeld. "Whatever you require, Marcus. It would be an honor to shoulder part of your burden."

The Lord Warden gave a small chuckle at that, but it was gone in a second.  
"Spring is coming, and the Vikings with it. I need you to coordinate the defense of the Frontier. And that means.."

"Harrowgate." Aldred finished. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," Marcus replied. "Lord Joyce is the commander there. I've told him to expect you."

Aldred nodded. "Remember, Marcus, if these fools in the Capital start driving you mad, you can always take a little time off to inspect the troops."

When the Warden raised an eyebrow, Aldred coughed and continued. "Maybe lead a skirmish or two. Killing Vikings will raise your spirits. It'll be like old times."

Marcus grinned at that, though it held a tired edge. He clasped the shorter man on the shoulder. "Ahh, if I only I could, old friend. But I do not have time to relive past glories. Ashfeld needs me, now more than ever."

Aldred supressed a sigh, and nodded. He saw the Lord Warden less and less over the years, and though he did miss his friend's companionship, Ashfeld took precedence.

It always did.


End file.
